


Dragon Fodder

by Terabyte_my_ass



Category: Original Work
Genre: Anal Sex, Angst, Characters of color, Criminal Justice, Fluff, M/M, Multi, Smut, Transphobia, Vaginal Sex, coerced sex, corrupted government, transgender character, transgender male
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-01-22
Updated: 2020-01-22
Packaged: 2021-02-27 10:54:16
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,898
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22355971
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Terabyte_my_ass/pseuds/Terabyte_my_ass
Summary: Three years ago, Corbyn Singer was ripped from his college campus in a very hush-hush case and tossed into a high security prison.  Silas Olemann, his boyfriend from a different college, had lost his virginity to Corbyn the night before - only to never hear from the guy again.Now, Silas is in graduate school for a Master’s in computer sciences and working in the IT department.  As a side job, he works early mornings at Maggie’s Café, the popular local coffee shop and bakery.  When his manager cautions staff about the ex-con she hired for closing, Silas has every intention of avoiding this person.But a ghost from the past will evoke old and new feelings in Silas and bring about more questions than answers.
Relationships: Corbyn Singer/Silas Olemann, Original Male Character/Original Male Character, Silas Olemann/Muhammad Zhar
Comments: 1
Kudos: 4





	Dragon Fodder

**Author's Note:**

> I’m alive! And before anyone yells at me, I am going to continue the …3 other works that I have in progress. However, I’m doing a revamp of the writing and so won’t update any until I have that finished *and* another chapter. But it’s coming, and hopefully soon.
> 
> Anyway, here’s a new story. There’s some triggering stuff including a lot of transphobia. Make sure to read any new tags and I’ll try to remember to make a note of potential triggers before the chapters. To clarify, I am not transphobic – at least, I really hope not. I, myself, identify as non-binary (trans-masculine) and advocate for equal rights. But unfortunately, angst requires suffering. Apologies, guys. Also, I’m terrible with any sort of electronics (that’s a bit of an over-exaggeration), so tech geeks, beware!

“Damn, were you at Rita’s meeting?” is the first thing Peter asks me as he walks in late. Again.  


“We open in seven minutes,” I remind him. Again. “You still need to record the stock we have and grind the arabica beans.”  


“C’mon man, why couldn’t you have done that,” he complains as he saunters past me.  


“Don’t forget to wash your hands.” In truth, I’ve already counted the bags and made notes on what to order tonight but it’s not my job. I’m not sure how or why Peter got a job at a local coffee shop and I’m even more confused by his continued employment. He’s always late, doesn’t do most of his responsibilities, and the tasks he actually completes are half-assed. Plus, he’s super creepy with most of the girls by trying to show off or ask for their numbers.  


“You didn’t answer my question,” the dickwad says as he walks over to the grinder with the much more expensive liberica beans. “Rita told you that she hired a criminal?”  


“Yes,” I huffed as I snatched the beans away from him. “But she can’t do worse than you.”  


Completely ignoring my jibe, he leans on the counter to watch me grind the beans I have pointed out to him for the last two weeks. “Can you believe it? I wouldn’t have thought such a stingy grandma would want to talk to a thug. And she’s a transgender at that,” he snorts.  


Enraged, I spin around, my mouth already open. But before I can tear him apart, there’s a knock on the front door. I check my watch. Damnit, it’s 6:32.  


Luckily, the morning rush prevents me and Peter from exchanging more words but my temper doesn’t cool down until midmorning, when it’s safe for me to take a break. This is the slowest time of the morning and I’m less wary of leaving Peter on his own, but I only take fifteen minutes for fear that he’ll somehow catch the building on fire if I’m not looking. The warm September air finally starts to calm me down and lets me think about more than espresso shots, chocolate croissants, and throttling Peter.  


Yesterday, Rita, owner and manager of Maggie’s Café, held a short meeting during each shift change. She told us that she has hired a “young woman – sorry, man – who is in need. Sh-he was recently released from prison and wants to turn his life around.” I can applaud Rita’s effort; she’s an elderly woman with a kind heart but I can’t say I agree with her decision to hire an ex-con. Rita could only remember the person as Kaylee but implored us to treat her with respect. Despite numerous questions about criminal records and safety, Rita was confident in her judge of character. Even so, everyone checked their schedules as soon as she was looking away. Right now, latest I might be working is 11:00 and the Kaylee person should only be working closing shifts, which start at 6.  


I purchase a Monster from the 7-Eleven across the street and down it on the walk back. I like coffee but I can’t actually drink it while I work, for some reason. It just turns my stomach. I walk into the café only twelve minutes from the start of my break and the first things I notice are the two people waiting to order and the lack of douchebag behind the counter. I curse him silently while putting on my friendly-and-extremely-apologetic-customer-service-smile.

\---

I read over my email once again and hit send. Hopefully, Rita will take my long list of complaints into consideration and fire Peter. He didn’t return for another ten minutes after I had to deal with the tired students and his flimsy excuse of “bathroom” did not explain why he walked through the front door. He’s lucky that there were still people inside or I might have tried to kill him.  


I yawn and notice that it’s almost 7:00. I’m supposed to meet Samantha at Quiznos soon, so I check that I my homework successfully submitted for the third time and shut the computer down.  


Samantha already has her food at a table and waves to me as I walk in. She’s a larger black girl with very purple hair and a subtle Boston accent. I trained her at Maggie’s over the summer and we bonded almost immediately. She’s just beginning the graduate program at UMass (in computer sciences too!) and we both love cheesy gay romcoms and John Mulaney. Different class schedules also means we have different work schedules but if both of us have free time, we’ll eat or watch movies together.  


I put my food down and she smiles up at me. “How was Peter today?” I groan and shake my head which makes her giggle. “I don’t understand why you don’t talk to Rita about him.”  


“I finally did today. She doesn’t work Tuesdays but I just sent her an email before I left my room.”  


“Good,” she said, and we took a couple minutes to eat in companionable silence. “So I met the new person today.”  


“Oh? I hadn’t realized they would start work so soon. And without Rita there?”  


“I know, I was surprised too.” She rubs the back of her neck, a habit that is more indicative of discomfort than deceit. “To be honest, we were all surprised when she showed up because Alia, who closes today, wasn’t in yet. But yeah, Rita had scheduled her to start today.” She seems to hesitate for a second. “I’m not sure what I was expecting after Rita told us she was a criminal. Probably some big butch woman with a lot of tattoos and an attitude. But this girl is small and timid.”  


“So then what is she like? Is she not transgender and Rita just confused by her appearance?” I’m not really eager to meet a known criminal but it always feels like there are no LGBT people outside of college.  


“I’m not really sure. I tried asking her in private but she kinda just shrugged. Everyone is calling her Kaylee with female pronouns so I guess I will, too. She was wearing an old t-shirt and dirty sweatpants that were way too big. I get the feeling that she has no support in her life, in finances or family.” She takes a moment to finish her food. “When she first came in, she asked for Alia and said she was there to work. I think she’s Asian? She talks very quietly. With a stutter.” After consideration, she adds, “Very clumsy but at least trying to learn.”  


“Cool,” is the best response I can think of. I probably won’t meet her, which is fine by me. I easily forget about Kaylee as Samantha starts questioning me on a new programming language and the roundabout commands it needs to perform even basic tasks.

\--- 

I want to bang my head against the desk, repeatedly, but I’m stuck scanning the file code again. Beside me, the old laptop is still running and the fans are spinning in an uneven pattern that is starting to drive me crazy.  


“Did any warning come up when you tried to check it?” God, give me a fucking hint.  


“I don’t think so,” was the quiet reply and I looked over at Jessie to see her crying as she’s frantically retyping her essay. She keeps switching between Google tabs and her document but is only on the second page. Her original was close to five pages. The clock shows 3:17; poor girl has less than 45 minutes to recreate a research essay she already finished. To make matters worse, English is not her first language.  


Jessie is an undergrad freshman who moved to the States two years ago. She’s mentioned that she’s in a difficult financial situation and the rest of her family is still in her home country. Her bulky laptop is a piece of shit, probably bought used and abused. Despite the semester beginning just two weeks ago, she’s visited IT at least three times before this: twice with me and once with Dylan. The first time was because the screen had frozen and restarting it did nothing. Luckily, it was only a disconnected wire but the electronics have obviously been messed with and the hard drive is a bit scratched up. I’m pretty sure it wasn’t Jessie, since she seemed surprised when I started taking the computer apart. I suggested she get a new computer (the wiring is so old and messed up, the cost to fix it would be more) but she admitted that she would have to pay for it herself and doesn’t have enough money. I let her take a flash drive found last year and was never claimed. She came in the next day when her computer refused to connect to the internet and I put in an order for an ethernet cable to connect to her room.  


This morning, her biology professor assigned an essay with a four o’clock deadline. Jessie had finished it over an hour ago, but the file showed up blank in the dropbox. The documents on both the computer and flash drive say they’ve been corrupted but I plugged the flash drive into my computer and it looks like the essay is still there. I can’t open the program because it was saved as a Word 97 file. Translating the code for Word 2013 is a bitch and I probably would have waited for my question, posted on multiple forums, to be answered but I highly doubt Jessie will be able to finish this second essay in time. Which means I have to recover the first one in… 38 minutes.  


Except for Jessie’s occasional sniffles, we work in silence. Some students come and go but the library is pretty quiet. Jessie moves onto her third page while I check the code over and over, comparing it to various online resources.  


The violent buzzing of my phone on the desk startles both of us. The caller ID flashes Samantha’s name but I mute it. I’m too focused to take the call. It continues to show the call screen for another minute before the answering machine takes over. I think it’s over and start at the top of the screen again when my phone buzzes with a text. I glance at it and the caps lock catches my attention. Samantha: EMERGENCY!!  


“Sorry, one sec,” I tell Jessie as I get up to call Samantha back. Out of habit, I walk over to the window, as if Jessie can’t hear me from a distance of five feet. The gray sky is pelting rain at the glass and the water runs down in shifting patterns. “What’s wrong?” I ask as soon as Samantha picks up.  


“I’m not dead,” she says quickly, which does little to alleviate my concerns, “but some crackhead hit me with their car.”  


“Ohmygod, are you hurt? Did anyone call 911? Where are you? Do you need me—”  


“I’m fine, mother.” I can practically hear her rolling her eyes. “I don’t think anything’s broken and I’m on my way to the hospital now. I was walking by the south dorms so the car wasn’t going too fast. But I’m definitely pressing charges. Think I can get enough to pay off my undergrad loans?” she’s suppressing giggles so she can’t be too hurt. “But yeah, I won’t make my shift and Alia needs to leave before the night shift comes in – which is Peter and Kaylee. I’m sorry for the late—”  


“No, no, I’ll definitely cover for you. You just got run over, after all. By a car.”  


“Thanks. We’re pulling into the hospital now. I think I’m fine but I’ll let you know what the doctors say.”  


“Sure,” I say with as much sarcasm as I can and now it’s my turn to roll my eyes. We both know that she’ll forget and I’ll have to be the one to reach out and make sure she’s still alive. “I’ll see you tonight, wherever you are.”  


I hang up and take another minute to let my anxiety cool down. The rain has picked up even harder but the wind changed so that it’s no longer hitting my window directly. There are a few students walking, and running, outside but I only see one person using an umbrella. I’ll have to call an Uber to get to Maggie’s if I don’t want to arrive soaked to the bone.  


I go back to my computer and it looks like Jessie has just given up. She’s resting her chin on the desk and staring at her screen blankly. I’m not sure what I can say to reassure her because it’s almost – Shit! It’s 3:52.  


It seems like my head is clearer from taking a break and I get the genius idea to highlight the punctuation and –there! It looks like I switched a word and a comma. I paste the program into Word and, yes, it’s running! Jessie’s essay loads four lines at a time and it looks like everything is there. Some grammatical issues, but I remind myself that English is not her native language. The bibliography pops up too and I excitedly shake Jessie’s shoulder to show her.  


A couple minutes later, I’m climbing into an Uber and feeling great. Jessie submitted the essay with a minute to spare and then hugged me with more tears in her eyes. Samantha actually texted with the news that she doesn’t have a concussion or even a sprain. I’ll be making an extra day’s pay and am considering using it to take Samantha to the Indian restaurant we both like. It feels like everything is going my way today.

\---

By now, you should know not to celebrate early, I berate myself irritably. Alia left four hours ago, the closing shift started two hours ago, and Samantha was discharged from the hospital half an hour ago. It’s fucking 8:00, we close in an hour, and neither Peter nor Kaylee have yet to show their faces. I’m pacing again and am probably making some of the customers uncomfortable but I’m too furious to stand still.  


Peter didn’t answer any of the five or six calls by my cell or the restaurant’s and couldn’t find Kaylee’s number on any of Rita’s forms. Even if just one of them shows up, I’ll still have to help close. At best, I’ll be back on campus by 10:00, and I promised to see Samantha, who will probably take forever to tell today’s story. And I have the opening shift tomorrow, so I’ll have to wake up before 5:00. Damnit!  


Since it looks like I’m closing tonight, I can try to prep for tomorrow and maybe sleep in by half an hour. Rita is insistent that the café continues to serve fresh, homemade pastries and I don’t usually mind. It gives the restaurant a more homey atmosphere. But it does mean that the opening shift is hard at work at least an hour before the doors are unlocked. Aaaand I have to consider who works when. For the closing shift, Samantha will usually prep and refrigerate dough the night before, but if Peter helped close, half the tables are still dirty. Or if Peter is scheduled to open with me, he won’t show up until the first customers. I sigh as I start pulling out flour, sugar, eggs, etc…  


The chime above the front door jingles and I peak out from the back to see an older woman shaking her umbrella out. She approaches the counter as I wipe flour from my hands and smile. “Good evening, ho—”  


“You’re Kaylee?” She’s scanning the counter as if it’s never been cleaned before and my first thought is she’s one of those dreaded health inspectors. I don’t think any have ever checked Maggie’s but there’s a first time for everything.  


“I’m sorry, ma’am, my name is Silas. May I do something for you?”  


She sniffs. And then sniffs again, harder. “I thought Kaylee was supposed to work tonight.” I’m not sure if health inspectors should smell so strongly of liquor.  


“She’s not in right now.”  


“So are you the stick-in-the-mud? The asshole?” If my smile didn’t look forced before, it sure as hell did now.  


“Do you need something ma’am?” She sniffs again and I’m preparing myself for some kind of explosive sneeze.  


“Peter works here, right? The white Peter?” I look around as if there might be a Peter here, white or not. “He’s about yey-high? Looks kinda greasy, makes girls uncomfortable. Makes guys uncomfortable, too.” I nod because I doubt that there are two Peters around that fit such a description. “Oh good. He overdosed,” was said so nonchalantly that it took me a second to process. In that one second, the woman decided I was incredibly stupid. “Ya’know, crack? Every seen crack, baby? I have some righ—”  


“Okay, ma’am,” I am well acquainted with the substance. “Please don’t bring it out here.” Before someone else sees and I have to call the police and then call Rita and then get nothing done an— “Is Peter alright?”  


“I’m sure.” She doesn’t seem particularly invested in him. “Will he keep his job?”  


“That’s not up to me,” but I hope not. “I’m not sure how my manager will address this.” Or is this now an issue of the state? Was he even taken to a hospital?  


“Oh well,” she sighs and turns around. “It’s not really my problem as long as he gets the money.” And then she’s out in the rain again.  


I close my eyes and grip the cool counter. I need a minute to re-center myself before I develop a stress headache.  


“Excuse me?” It’s a young girl, her adults opening their umbrellas by the door. “The lady left her umbrella.” She pointed to the ground where, indeed, the crackhead had just left it.  


I smile with a “thanks, sweetie,” and take it into the back as the girl skips away. God, give me a break from these crazy people.  


God, or whoever, has no such mercy and I barely start my mental checklist when the store phone starts ringing. It’s an old landline and it acts its age. Hence: I pick up the phone with a “Hello, this is—” only to have it ring obnoxiously next to my head. I have to try to trick the receiver three times before it allows me to connect to the call.  


“Maggie’s,” I deadpan. I’ve accepted that I just won’t get sleep tonight.  


“Maggie’s Café?” asks a woman.  


“Maggie’s Café,” I confirm and lean my head against the wall. Please just ask about delivery, I pray to the mysterious woman. Please, one question. Just one. I need to work.  


“And you have an employee named Kaylee? Kaylee Singer?” I ignore the twinge in my chest at the common name. “I’m a nurse at the Dickinson Hospital. Ms. Singer has requested we notify you of her admittance into the hospital at 5:41 PM. The official cause is an atonic seizure that caused Ms. Singer to fall while on the bridge across the Connecticut River. Multiple eyewitnesses claim several men rushed to her side when she went down but then one picked her up threw her into the river. She was retrieved and brought to the hospital and has been stable for over an hour. The doctor will be discharging her tonight.”  


There’s silence as I’m trying to process this new information. The headache isn’t helping.  


“Sir, did you hear me?” The nurse sounds as tired as I feel.  


“Yes, thank you for calling.”  


I’m about to hang up the phone when I hear, “Sir? Does your workplace provide insurance?”  


"I’m not sure. I only work part-time.” The line goes dead.  


This night has been piling one disaster on top of another, like a car crash in an ice storm. To top it off, some dumb fuck took the last of the ibuprofen and left the empty bottle. And it’s still raining.

\---

I’m not sure what song is playing, but it’s my jam. The ugly paintings on the walls merged together long ago and now faces are starting to merge as well. A couple people may have already left but I don’t remember what the original count was anyway. It really doesn’t matter. Everyone’s happy. Even Al, who’s been flirting with M’lady the Mummy in the corner for over an hour. Maybe. Time has lost all meaning. It’s dark out, so maybe it’s night. Or morning. Or Hell. Wait, that’s not a time.  


At one point, Samantha joins us, and I only know this because she grabs me to shout “HAPPY [SOMETHING]” and snatches whatever drink I was holding. I think she took my joint, too. If I was holding a joint. Oh well, I should have more somewhere. I can’t be sad at this party, it’s too important. I think.  


I’m not really sure who set my alarm clock or why, but it kills the mood. For a second, I think I’m waking up, but no, the music just turned off. Someone catches me as I lean too far to one side and then I’m sitting at the kitchen table. Who brought floodlights in? It hurts.  


“Silas, you’re not going to find anymore alcohol.”  


“Why not?” I whine. I open the fridge again, as if bottles will magically appear.  


“It’s a Monday.”  


“It’s more than a Monday,” I lament. Yeah, there was something else.  


“Your birthday, dumbass.”  


“It’s my birthday!” I exclaim gleefully. I pull open a drawer but I can’t remember what I’m looking for.  


“We hid the weed, too.”  


“But it’s my birthday,” I cry, very disappointed and very loud.  


“Silas, hun, I thought you had stopped the excess substances.” It’s Katty. She’s sitting directly across from me. And I’m also sitting, now.  


“You didn’t tell me it was this bad.” Samantha was frowning. I smile extra big to make up for it.  


“You have no idea.” Katty. Katty and Samantha. Talking. Talking about things that girls talk about things and girls.  


I look around. Where did everyone go?  


Fingers snap in front of my face. Very close.  


“I’m gonna head out.” Purple. Samantha. “Listen to Kat, okay?”  


I think I roll my eyes. I can’t be sure.  


“Oh, I almost forgot! I have some birthday news.” I try to focus on her face. I think it’s her face. “Rita finally fired Peter!” She wants to celebrate! Maybe she’ll bring out the vodka again? “She’s already hired someone; they’ll take over Peter’s schedule. Everyone else’s taking turns to fill in and train so I made sure you’re not working tomorrow. Definitely not up to it.” Tomorrow, tomorrow, tomorrow… Tomorrow is…Halloween?  


“Halloween is in two weeks.” Katty is exasperated. I think.  


Arms come around me. Smells like coffee. “And I had a nice conversation with Kaylee before I left.”  


“Kaylee. Kaylee Singer. Singer, Singing, Sing…Sing-er.” The word is the name. The name that sits like a rock in my mouth. I like rocks.  


“Yeah, they prefer he/him or they/them, they’re just too shy to ask. Said we can call them Kaylee but actually prefers Corbyn.”  


Singer. Corbyn.  


“You’ve got to be shitting me.”

**Author's Note:**

> I really can’t code to save my life. Too many commas
> 
> This chapter is super long and I’m not sure if the others will be this length or not. Also, updates will probably be slow since I am now working on 4 different stories (because I apparently hate myself and can’t wait to finish one project before starting another). I’m also starting spring semester next week and have 20 credits on my plate. I have no idea what I was thinking in November but I was definitely *not* sane.
> 
> Anyway, you can harass me with kudos and comments and maybe it’ll persuade me to write stories while I procrastinate on homework. It’s much more productive than Instagram


End file.
